The Time My Sister and I Were Held up at Gunpoint

It was the night of December 25 (going into the 26th), 1992.  We had just left a family party, probably right after midnight.

My sister and I were in my mother's car and we got a flat.  Fairly run-of-the-mill trouble, really, just at the wrong place and the wrong time.  So we pull into a closed-down gas station so we could use their air pump and re-inflate and get our asses home for the evening.

As we're trying to address the situation this compact sedan with four guys screeches in from nowhere and the guy in the front-passenger seat bolts out and the first thing I think of is "why is that guy holding a toy gun?"

Uh oh... that's not a toy gun.

So he tells me to lay on the floor face down (on the oily greasy gas-station tarmac), tells my sister to back away and put her purse on the floor, tells me to take my wallet out of my back pocket and throw it at him (all complied with; don't argue with a guy with a gun, you will lose) and then .... they take a look-see ... and go away.

I can't honestly recall what was in my wallet; I can tell you that my sister's purse didn't have much more than a stick of lipstick in it.  I'm happy to report that both our brains were safely in our skulls as of later that night.

The one bit of luck out of the situation is that my father at the time lived just a few blocks away so my panicked call to him resulted in quick help.  He came; he re-inflated.  He dragged us off and gave us shelter.

He also gave me a bed in which to cry myself to sleep that night.  There is no shame in feeling sorry about things.